


Double Seater

by Flobbergasted



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Episode: s01e06 Chapter Six: Faster Pussycats! Kill! Kill!, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 23:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flobbergasted/pseuds/Flobbergasted
Summary: Betty and Jughead take the bus to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy group home.A missing scene from 1x06, “Faster, Pussycats! Kill! Kill!”





	Double Seater

The Sisters of Quiet Mercy group home was just over an hour outside of Riverdale, according to the trip planner app. Over a couple of evening texting sessions and a lunch hour, Betty and Jughead had formed their plan of attack. They’d catch their bus from the downtown bus mall a little while after school ended, arriving just before dinner hour. They’d find and talk to Polly for, say, an hour, after which there were two evening buses to choose from, heading back toward Riverdale. If everything went as it should, they’d get home in the late evening, the excuse of a visit to Pop’s perfectly covering their tracks.

The first part of the plan went smoothly. Jughead was waiting in the hallway outside of Betty’s classroom as the final bell rang, and they hightailed it off of school grounds before anyone—friends, especially—could waylay them. (Yes, it was a stealth mission, but there was another reason Jughead didn’t want the entire Scooby gang coming along: good intentions notwithstanding, none of their friends seem to have the same focus or drive that he and Betty had been able, for whatever reason, to muster as a team. And, after two months with not much company but his own, Jughead had to admit that he liked being on a team—this particular, admittedly small team. Betty was sharp, determined, and caring, and there was something sacred about the whole endeavor, and about their time together, that he didn’t want to invite others into—or question too intently.)

It was a half-hour walk downtown, and along the way Betty and Jughead brainstormed questions they needed to ask Polly and alternative plans in case they didn’t get what they needed out of this visit. They went a block and a half out of their way for a bag of samosas from the Indian take-out place—their on-board dinner plan—before hustling it to the terminal and catching the 4:15 bus.

The bus, a beater from the fifties that Peregrine Bus Lines or the Riverdale Transit Commission had apparently never bothered to retire, was about a third full. Betty and Jughead chose a double seater near the back and watched their town gradually recede into the distance out the window. They passed a few box stores and then the truck stop. The autumnal landscape was beginning to look scraggly and forlorn, drying up with crunchy leaves. Soon all signs of civilization disappeared behind a wall of trees, a bland road blurred beneath them, and the reflections of their own faces in the window hovered, ghostly.

It was still a bit early for dinner, and Betty was nervy about the prospect of seeing Polly, so she ate just a single samosa before graciously bestowing the rest of her share upon Jughead. He double-checked, then grinned at her and ripped into them with gusto. Betty smiled, amused.

And then there was nothing to do but wait. Betty pulled out her history homework, then stuffed her bag in between herself and the window. Next to her, Jughead balled up their dinner garbage and shoved it into his jacket pocket. Appearing relatively contented, or at least resigned to the down time, he sprawled his legs out into the aisle, pulled out a school library copy of George Orwell’s _Down and Out in Paris and London_, and opened to a later page marked by a torn scrap of graph paper.

Betty looked down at her own books. She tried to focus on General Custer and the Alamo, but the names and dates that she would typically have memorized easily seemed meaningless and out of reach. After a few failed attempts, she let her homework sit untouched on her lap as she gazed again out the window and picked at the pills of her sweater. A few minutes later, she let out a sigh, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back on the seat. Closing her eyes and retreating for a little while was the least she deserved, right? But thoughts and questions continued to whirl around in her head—would Polly be there? What would she say? Would she be different somehow? How could she be the same when everything else had changed? Would Betty be able to handle seeing her sister institutionalized?—and she found she couldn’t get comfortable. Betty shifted back and forth, sighed again, and finally reached up to take out her ponytail, which jutted against the headrest no matter her position. With her hair out of the way, the seat became a bit more comfortable.

Around five, Jughead noticed that Betty’s breathing had evened out. Looking her way, he was glad to see her dozing; any rest she could get was probably well deserved. Her hair was down now, he observed, and his stomach gave a little flip in response to a couple of plump, golden curls near her neck that bounced a bit.

So he looked away—out the windows across from his aisle, at the other passengers, at the floor, _anywhere_.

For a few days now, or maybe a week—or even a few weeks, who knows—Jughead had been trying to put out this little spark that had somehow been kindled in him. What should it matter to him that Trev, or anyone for that matter, might want to go out with Betty? It shouldn’t, so he had done his best to tamp down—and carefully conceal—the pangs of panic that he’d been a little surprised to feel burst upward in himself a few days earlier, when Trev had walked into the _Blue & Gold_ office to confirm his date with Betty. Jughead had always been Betty’s buddy, and what had been wrong with that? Nothing. Shouldn’t that be enough, as it always had been? Yet these days it seemed every interaction between them stirred up embers within him that he hadn’t even known were there, and his attempts to ignore them—even to douse them—just weren’t working. (It didn’t help, Jughead supposed, that he kept getting in his own way by constantly agreeing to do things with her …)

He stashed his book and curled up into the seat. Turning his head in the direction of their window, he watched the trees go by, simultaneously enjoying and pretending not to enjoy the blonde curls and creamy skin he could see in his peripheral vision, simultaneously relishing in and forcing himself to ignore the scent of Betty’s shampoo.

A minute or two later, Betty shifted. Was she waking up? For some reason, Jughead’s heartbeat quickened. But that was stupid; if she woke up, she’d only see him, in his seat, looking out the window. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Betty’s eyes were still closed. He had nothing to worry about.

She shifted a bit more, stretched, and made an undeniably cute, almost squeaky, little noise. Her head bobbed once there, once here, but found nowhere to land.

Jughead’s heartbeat sped up again as he had a brainwave: he could, conceivably, put his shoulder in the path of her lolling head, such that he might act as its resting place. Never in his life, until now, had he had the urge to do anything of the sort. But what harm could it do? Nobody was around. They knew no one else on the bus. Betty herself might not even notice. All was quiet on the western front.

After minor adjustments to his posture, combined with some surreptitious coaxing, it worked. Betty's head dropped to his shoulder, and Jughead did his damnedest to hold back the smile that threatened to escape.

And then, for a fleeting second, Betty opened her eyes and looked up at him.

Now his heart was well and truly hammering.

In her sleepy haze, though, she gave him the warmest smile, and sighed the gentlest sigh, and reached up to adjust the folds of his denim jacket (presumably to get more comfortable) with such trusting license … he knew he was a lost cause.

But it was worth it, because a second later, she snuggled in close, and Jughead—who then, after a seemingly infinite moment of hesitation, dared to touch his head down onto hers—felt something achingly sweet settle in his stomach. He could not have described it if you asked him to. Maybe he would have used the word _peace_, or _home_, _contentment_, or simply _right_.

_Some hard-boiled writer I am. What a sap._ Jughead was fooling himself if he thought he was trying to quash his feelings for Betty; truth be told, he’d been indulging the little, hopeful flame at every opportunity. He couldn’t help himself.

He didn’t dare move a muscle, lest she shift away from him. It was a perfect moment. The only sounds were the hum of the engine, the trundling of the tires. The world and all the people in it were completely gone—away, outside their window—far away, outside the enclosure of their double seat.

Perfection could only last so long. About fifteen minutes, in this case. Nearing 5:30, Jughead observed a foreboding building up ahead, which could only be the group home. The driver slowed the bus and announced the upcoming stop.

He enjoyed the weight of her, the warmth of her for a few more long seconds, then roused Sleeping Beauty with a little nudge. She opened bleary eyes and removed herself from him as he forced himself to sit up straight, gather himself.

Betty did the same, and the sleepy oblivion of her expression was replaced, in short order, by thoughtful determination. She pulled her hair up, hurriedly redoing her ponytail.

Betty got off that bus ready for whatever would come, ready to see her sister—but pained by the look of the institution, and apprehensive. He could see it all in her face, and what could he do but admire her for it, and support her? She was so much braver than he had been. He had let his family slip through his fingers. She was refusing to do the same.

Jughead got off that bus ready, too—ready to admit something to himself: Betty cared about people, Betty cared about the truth, Betty cared about doing what was right. And Jughead cared about Betty.

If he didn’t act, somebody else surely would. Trev, most likely. Or any one of those letterman buffoons. Or—God forbid—Archie himself.

He couldn’t have that. He’d have to do something. Soon.

But what?


End file.
